Stormy Hearts
by eliestarr
Summary: For it was not into my ear you whispered, but into my heart. It was not my lips you kissed, but my soul. - A series of Spitfire drabbles spanning past, present and future, canon and non-canon, love and everything else.
1. You Suck At Love

I've started posting these on Tumblr already, and figured I would share it here, too. Hope you enjoy.

**Pairing: **Wally/Artemis

**Summary:** A series of drabbles inspired by Hedley's _Storms_ album and Simple Plan's _Get Your Heart On!_, the story title being a combination of the album names. There'll be a drabble for nearly every song, creating a compilation.

This is my try at these two, so please, let me know what you think if you read it. Title from the song by Simple Plan, where the lyrics are from**.  
><strong>

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><p><em>You played me like an amateur<br>Then stabbed me like a murderer  
>I'm left for dead, another one of your victims<br>It's not like you're unpredictable  
>But your act is so believable<br>I know it's nothing personal  
>It's just business as usual<em>

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><p>There is fire in her eyes. A raw, smoldering flame, dancing in the depth of dark irises. It is wild, untamed and every bit as dangerous as she is. It burns through the space between them, evaporating the sweat from their flesh, ripping the air from his lungs. These embers are what drive him to keep his cool, to still his beating heart, to keep him from running the other way. They are what keep his focus.<p>

Not the angry way her brows furrow.

Not the quiver of her finger, barely holding the string in place.

And certainly not the arrowhead digging into the fabric of his uniform—just above his heart.

In this fractured moment, green can only stare into grey. He can't help but search for familiarity in the depths of hellish hate, of lies and of distrust. Where is the girl that laughed at his corny jokes? That smacked him for hitting on teammates? That would fight with him until their throats were raw, and just as soon kiss him senseless at the drop of a pin?

He cannot find her, lying hidden beneath the hostility facing him. Beneath the orange and black that replace familiar green. Beneath the smudges of grime and blood that have smeared her hands with dirt she simply can't wash off. Simply can't walk away from. Simply can't come back from.

Because she isn't coming back. She can't. She won't. And even if she wanted to, he'd never let her. Not after this. Not after standing here, daring her with his eyes to let go, to fire, to go all the damn way and step into her father's shoes and _shoot him_.

"You shouldn't be here," she hisses, finally breaking the silence, her steely gaze never leaving his.

He grunts. "I wanted to see. I wanted to know for sure."

Her shoulders straighten. Her eyes narrow. "Find what you were looking for?"

He laughs—and it's hollow, and dark, and carries none of the Wally she's used to. "Not even close." He takes a step forward and she, one back. They stay locked together in this offensive stance, caged tigers ready to burst free. Which he supposes is ironic, given her new gig.

"You won't," she adds, taking another step away from him. He follows, because he refuses to let her slip away. Not again. Not this easily.

The dying streetlamp outside the alley bathes her in light, and he tries to think about how she used to be beautiful. How he used to call her that. All the time, like it rolled off his tongue. But now, when he tries it, all he can see is orange and black, and the logo blatant displayed on her chest. Not any arrow anymore, just a shadow of what she used to be.

Anger claws its way up his throat, his rage a beast begging to bet set free. He came here for answers, with the intention of setting things straight, but he can't. Everything is pain and fury and disgust, and he lashes out. "Why?" He spits, green eyes narrowing. "Why did you do this to us?" She bares her teeth a little as she forces the arrow to dig in just a little more. "To the _Team_," he clarifies.

"This is who I am," she says.

"A con artist? A thief? A _liar_?"

She scoffs. "Your priorities are a bit off there, Kid."

"'Course they were. Had you on top, didn't I?" It doesn't matter that his eyes are angry, his posture spills hatred—her cheeks still heat up. He never was good at wording things. "Was it all a lie? All of it? The time you spent cooking with M'gann, or competing with Dick, or teaching Conner, or sparring with Kaldur, or—" he falls into a hush, because he won't involve himself. No more than he already has. He won't go that far. "Was any of it _real_?"

She knows what he's implying, what remains unsaid. But for any of this to work, she can't care. She can't give in. He's angry, wants to be, has the _right to be_, and she'll give him that. She'll tell him what he wants to hear. "No." She hates how her voice quivers just slightly. "Just business." She hates how she can still spot the hurt skitter across his green eyes for just a split-second before anger replaces it.

She hates how the corner of his mouth quirk up ever so slightly. "You were always a terrible liar, Artemis."

"It's _Tigress_, now."

"Yeah, sure. That's why you've already shot and killed me, just the way he wants you to." He raises his hands at his sides and steps back, finally. She focuses on the small hole her arrow made in his uniform instead of the way he's looking at her. "Have fun playing daddy's favorite, Artemis. I'm sure you'll get tired of it eventually." And he turns, with one last pointed look at the arrow she still has notched, ready to fire through his mangled heart. "The way you did with me."

The hair flutters slightly around her face in the wind, and she doesn't need to look up to know he's gone.

And he's not coming back.


	2. Carry On

**original Tumblr note: **I want to quickly thank everyone who reblogged and commented and received the first fic with such love. You mean the world to me, brand shiny new YJ family, you do.

That said, this was written in the wee hours of the morning, so please excuse any ndjfnajdbasjd that may occur (see, I can't even complete words anymore. Ugh.) They're aged only a slight bit, and it's a sort-of-kind-of-already-established Spitfire but shhhh. Lastly, I'd like to point out that none of the future playlist drabbles are connected, at all. They're all just random things that popped into mind as the lyrics played on. This one's based on the Hedley song of the same name. Huzzah.

**fanfiction side-note: **because formatting on the website does not allow strikethrough the way Tumblr does, all things crossed out in the original are in [brackets] here. Mmkay? For the proper, how-it-was-written version, see tumblr. Thank you, darlings!

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><p><strong>Carry On<strong>

_Well I've been beat down to the sound of laughter, but I'll be okay  
>And you can keep calling me your beautiful disaster, all damn day<br>See I hold your heart like a part of me, baby  
>It's the only thing that's stopping me from falling down<br>Yeah, you're the harmony that keeps me sound._

I've always believed his penchant for keeping these ridiculous souvenirs after missions was silly. Realistically, he's never going to use them again, so why bother. All he does is frame them up and place them on shelves to collect dust. And yes, contrary to any statements he may give against it, there is, in fact, a load of dust on said shelves. And souvenirs. Especially in that empty spot where my arrow used to be.

Yes, _my_ arrow. Not _Roy's_, as someone _loudly_ and quite [falsely] _annoyingly_ likes to point out. _My_ arrow that saved his arse from Amazo. _My_ arrow that saved the whole freaking team from the Reds. After I took it back from this ridiculous room, of course.

My arrow is the only souvenir that's been reused after shelving. (Because no, I don't count the incident with the stupid helmet. I like to pretend it doesn't exist, ever since I caught him talking to it. Addressing it as Nelson. About _me_.) Mine is the only souvenir that's not coming back, either, no matter how much he [whines] [begs] asks politely.

The room's better off without it, anyway. It's crowded enough as is. I remember what it was like, once upon a time, when his collection was small. But then we all got [slightly] older, and the Bats gave us more missions, and it grew and grew and grew. And I suppose it hasn't helped that he's not just adding things from missions anymore. He's got a whole section of it dedicated to us.

And _us_, let me be clear, is the _Team_. Anything containing _Wally_ and _I_ together is with the group, not separate, because really, there's no reason to have a section just for your _girlfriend_ in your souvenir room, right? [Okay, so maybe I'm a little bitter, but _come on__._] He's got trinkets from trips, and pictures from outings, and things that let him remember the stuff we've all done together and been through, not just as a team, but as teenagers. As friends. As family.

Like when Kaldur finally completed his sorcery training, and Robin helped the Bats create a suits that would take us down for his graduation without killing us. Or when M'gann baked our first family Christmas dinner, and it grew from the six of us, to half the League, by word of mouth (and sacred speedster appetite). Or when Conner finally had his long-awaited adopt-a-parent moment, only it was with Wonder Woman, not Superman, and he couldn't have been happier. Or when Robin coaxed us all into dressing up as ourselves for Halloween, then came as himself—literally, as _Dick Grayson_, and I nearly _strangled_ him, because the little shit was _at school with me the whole time._

But as I stand here, scanning the shelf that the Team adorns, I can find nothing of us. Just us. Nothing for him to remember our adventures, when we were forced from the Cave because the others were sick of hearing us argue. Nothing from the excursions, when we went willingly because we'd actually become friends. Nothing, either, from the outings neither of us would call _dates_, because we weren't sure what to call _ourselves_, making the slow transition from friends-with-potential to -potentially-considering-couple. When we were comfortably sitting in denial, thinking the other was _stupid_, or _oblivious_, or _moronic_, or—maybe that was just me. Moving on.

And really, it wouldn't bother me so much if maybe, perhaps, on a whim, he'd added things from our _actual_ dates, when we're made the awkward transition from potentially-considering-couple to, y'know, _actual_ couple. That still fought, and argued, and made each other want to pull out our hair, but never failed to _make-up_ afterwards and—am I getting carried away again? Oops.

"Ahem." Startled, I pivot on my heel; hand already in motion to unfold the crossbow hidden in my leather jacket. Only, it's just him, standing in the doorway, arms crossed, grinning. "Looking for me?"

"Would've look in your room then, wouldn't I?" I place a hand on my hip, trying to muster a smirk to cover up the fact that he's not wearing a shirt and yes I noticed and damn him to _hell_, it's late, what is he doing up?

"Only it's four in the morning, and that's where you've left. Because I woke up to a cold bed."

"Psh. What happened to enhanced metabolism and heightened body temperatures?"

He shrugs, stepping into the room, eyes scanning the shelves. "Not the same without you."

I can't tell whether we're still talking about his [bed] room, or here. His green eyes are still searching everywhere but with me, so I snort, displeased. "You certainly don't mean here," I huff, crossing my arms in an attempt to brace against the draft he seems to have brought with him. "Because I don't see _me_ anywhere."

He looks sideways at me, a grin creeping onto his lips. "'Course you're here, Arty. You're in every one of those pictures." He points behind me, and I don't need to turn to know where the collage of photographs is. Of the _Team_. So I raise one eyebrow, just one, as my eyes and lips settle into a decidedly unimpressed line.

He has the audacity to _chuckle_.

"You had your own spot in here until you stole your arrow, you know."

"I didn't _steal_ it; it was mine to begin with!" I huff again, blowing a loose strange of blonde out of my face. "Besides, it's not like you asked for it back afterwards."

He raises his hands at his sides innocently, coming closer. "Would you have given it to me? At the time?"

"No."

"Exactly," he grins, and reaches out, his fingers feather-light as they brush against my skin, pushing the strand of hair back behind my ear. I try to pretend the touch doesn't send shivers traveling down my spine. Jerk. "Besides, I've got something far better as a souvenir of all this."

I raise the other eyebrow very suspiciously. "Which is?"

He doesn't even hesitate, my words just the green light he was looking for. He crashes his lips to mine, his hands pressing against the side of my face, pulling me closer, until there isn't any space left between us. Any air. _Anything_. Just a mix of the same heat and intensity I feel every time he does this. I wrap my arms around his middle, raking my nails lightly against his bare back. In retaliation, one hand slips from my face and downwards, inching beneath the hem of my tee, settling on my waist, burning through my skin and inwards, to my heart.

Every inch of me is on fire when he pulls away, all too soon, a grin on his lips.

He holds his forehead against mine, the smile capturing his whole face, freckles bunching together, lighting him up the way it does on Christmas. Or any holiday, really. Or when he sees food. Or Robin comes home with a new unreleased game for them.

"You, beautiful," he winks, and I suddenly remember we had some important conversation going about souvenirs, and the lack of a section for me, and him having something better, and _I just don't care_. Because he might've been finished, but I sure as hell wasn't.

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><p>Corny fluff is cornyyyyyyy. I blame writing this when I [should've] [could've] wasn't sleeping. So, anyway, I tried writing it <em>not<em> through Artemis's eyes. Really. I did. Only it didn't work, and it just sounded too _her_ in my head (especially because I could be an _italics_-whore when it came to her frustration), and I changed it all. So, huzzah. There you have it, dears. I hope you enjoyed :3


	3. We Are Unbreakable

Okay, so here's number three, already posted on Tumblr. Title is that of the Hedley song from which come th lyrics. Huzzah.

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><p><strong>We Are Unbreakable <strong>

_These scars on my heart I own them  
>Dark days when my will was stolen<br>I can bring it back  
>Yeah, I know it, I know it<br>And I'm starting to feel again_

She is angry. It is the first thing she feels as she peels off her gloves, letting the green leather drop to the floor, forgotten. Her irritation practically palpable, and she wishes she could wash it from her skin as easily as the dirt caught under her nails. But she can't, because she is angry.

Angry at herself for hesitating. Angry for not taking the shot when it counted. Angry that he still affects her, after all this time. It's been two years. _Two freaking years._ He shouldn't matter anymore. It's not like the others do. She never hesitates on a mission when faced with any other member of the Shadows.

So _why_ is he different?

It takes every inch of self-control not to scream in frustration as she unzips her shirt, tossing it to the floor with disdain. The green of it should make her happy, should remind her that things _have changed_, and why is she worried about what's behind her? Only it doesn't. Because today proved that. Proved things aren't _different_, they're… they're… _stupid_.

It's the only word she can manage as she shuffles to her dresser, pulling free a white tee, then easing it over her head. _Stupid_. Because he was standing there, looking at her the way he used to, and she could've—_should've_—fired, and could hear the others egging her on through their mental link, but she froze. _He_ made her freeze, which she supposes is fitting, but also _stupid_.

_Stupid_ like the way a tiny part of her heart still aches seeing him. But she's changing her green pants for leggings, and trying not to think about it.

_Stupid _like the way her fingers shake, because he could've spilled everything in her moment of hesitation. He could've told her teammates _everything_. Only, he didn't. But she's facing the mirror, and untying her hair, and trying _so hard_ to hate him.

"_Stupid like you_," she spits, narrowing her eyes at the girl in the mirror, running a hand down her stomach, trying to smooth down her shirt, her skin, her nerves. Because that's just what she is—_stupid_. For getting involved on the job, for still thinking about it after two years, for everything.

"You're not stupid."

At first she thinks she imagines it, because it's so soft, so unlike the boy who prides himself on being unforgettable, obnoxious, outgoing, and _loud_. But she can just see the glow of his yellow tee in her mirror, leaning in her doorway with his arms crossed, eyeing her.

She isn't bothered about how long he's been standing there. What he's seen. It's common occurrence now that after a mission he'll wind up at her door. To talk. To think. To… There are no questions about what he's going to say—she knows. He was with her tonight. He saw her hesitate, saw her inability to fire. He's come to gloat, to taunt, to remind her over and over again that Red Arrow was the better choice, irrelevant of the fact that they've been _getting along_. Enjoying each other's company, without the others cramming happy pills down their throats.

Only… he's not smirking like he's discovered way number 253 to annoy her. He's not laughing like he does when he gets under her skin. His smile is sincere as he steps into her darkened room, unfolding his arms as he comes to stand beside her.

He stares for a moment longer than he should, and her brows crease the way they do when she's chewing him out for being an idiot. It should tell him she's not in the mood for his antics, and he's okay with that, because that's not why he's here. He opens his mouth and she braces for the taunting, but instead, she is met with; "Why don't you wear your hair down more?"

She falters for only a fraction of a second—he'd be impressed. "Not very aero-dynamic, is it?"

"With your uniform, sure," he shrugs, absently running his fingers through her mane of blonde. "But you should in civvies. It's nicer."

She blinks at his reflection. She should wonder why he's being nice, why he's complimenting her without an insult stuck in the middle of all that. She should think to look for hidden cameras and a disguised Robin, lying in wait with a bucket of sticky feathers. But all she can do is stare, for this is _so_ not normal Wally behavior and this is _so_ not how she should be feeling about him running his nimble fingers through her hair.

Because Wally's sending an entirely different kind of shiver down her spine than _he_ ever did, and she honestly can't bring herself to care. "Because I… I'm not…" _Pretty? Smart? Worth it?_ The words catch in her throat when she sees the look in his emerald irises. It dares her to say it, dares her to voice every self-deprecating thought she has about herself. Every reason she is angry with herself.

And she tries. She really does. Only, his hands are on her in an instant, and his mouth is running its course, telling her exactly why he doesn't think she's stupid. What he thinks is more than amazing about her. And she has no idea where this is coming from, and should probably be more suspicious than she is, but she can't.

Because that ache in her heart? It's thawing.

And those fingers that were shaking? They're burning, boiling with the same heat his are as they rake across her skin.

And that anger? When she turns halfway through his speech to crash her lips against his, melding together their mouths, bodies, feelings, _souls, _it up and disappears—

-and she thinks about how this feels nothing like _anything_ with Cameron ever did.

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><p>Implied <em>past-tense <em>IcicleJr/Artemis, because even if I'm not that big of a fan of them, the lyrics told me to do it. And I can't get them out of my head. Goddammit. So my apologies to anyone that reads this and dislikes them. SPITFIRESPITFIRESPITFIRE (L)


	4. Stormy

**Note: **Sorry I've been such a procrastinator lately. Everyone who's seen this over on Tumblr, disregard it. Anyone knew to the fold, hi there, and enjoy two spitfire drabbles. Hope you like them!

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><p><strong>Stormy<strong>

_Boom, crash, all night  
>You scream, we fight<br>These words, they strike like lightning  
>Dark skies tell no lies<br>Like your stormy eyes  
>If it's cold tonight<br>I'm here now_

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><p>They're on each other the moment the Team steps out of the zeta tube—and not in the way you'd think, either. Her face is pinched, lips drawn into a tight line. His anger is so palpable you can practically see his hair crackling with the static of it.<p>

"_Artemis_—"

"Our mission failure had nothing to do with me!" She whirls; ponytail twirling around so fast he wonders, briefly, if could cause her whiplash. He certainly hopes so.

"Really? Because I'm pretty sure if you'd actually taken the shot—"

"Oh, with _you_ in the way? Do you _want_ a hole through your head, Baywatch? Because that can be arranged, no villains needed."

"Don't need villains around when we've got you… you… you harpy!"

"Harpy? Ouch. Your words _scathe_ me."

"I'm sure, what with you having no heart and all. I'll bet you were raised to hate everything, weren't you? Raised by _demons_."

"Yes, because you're a real _bundle_ of rainbows and kittens, aren't you?"

"At least _I _helped on the mission. Unlike some people. I'm still wondering why we haven't traded you in for Roy yet."

"So you keep saying," she huffs, crossing her arms, her back to the rest of the team as she musters the fiercest glare possible. "Why don't you just call up your _precious_ Roy and ask him, then? Set a _date_."

"Maybe I will," he stands at full height, matching her stance. "Then you won't have to be so jealous that we like him better."

"What do I care? You can think what you want, but if it helps you sleep at night, go ahead and bring in your _man-crush_. We don't have a quota, remember? Maybe then you'll get off my back."

"Or maybe you could throw in the towel. Leave. Let the people who actually _belong_ here step in and take the shot—sorry, _a_ shot."

She knows it shouldn't hurt. It really shouldn't. She knows he's just getting into it with her the way he always does, but there is something about the way he says it, something in his eyes and in his voice, that practically slaps her across the face. That chews at her insides. That stomps on her heart feet. That _hurts_.

She feels the sting. The burn in her eyes and the ache in her chest. She opens her mouth, wills a retort to come flying out, _needs_ to say something back to wipe that _stupid_ smirk on his face. He thinks he's won, and she needs to tell him he hasn't. But she can't. Nothing comes out.

Nothing except anger and pain and _hurt_. And her hands ball into fists, and her nails dig uncomfortably into her skin, and her teeth bite into her cheek, trying to calm the wave of words that _will not go over well _from clawing their way out her throat. "Fine!" she chokes, her voice _much_ higher-pitched than intended. "I will!"

And then she turns toe, walking right out. Only, it isn't into a zeta-tube, it's _out_. Out of the main room, out of the Cave, out of Mount Justice.

The others say nothing. Wally, in his defense, looks momentarily out of it, a frown etching across his brow. But then, it's gone in a huff, and he drags himself to the kitchen to make food. Bread, lettuce, tomatoes, ketchup, mustard, pickles, chips, olives, hot peppers, cucumbers, bean sprouts, dried apricots, and leftovers from last night's late-night fry run. You name it, the boy finds it.

It's a little more aggressive sandwich-making than his teammates are used to, and in silence, they keep casting glances at the door, hoping to see the blonde archer waltz right back in, sock him in the arm, and continue on as normal.

Robin, despite being his best friend, can't bring himself to words. His hands are tightly balled into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking with his anger. Kaldur stands beside him, face composed, eyes narrowed, never betraying his emotion as he stands vigil. M'gann is in tears now, cheeks flushed and fingers intertwined with Superboy's. In the end, it is Conner who approaches the speedster, very casually, taking the fully-made sub from his grip before he can chow down.

"Hey, what do you think you're—"

"There's a thunderstorm rolling in, you know."

"Thank you, Mr. Weatherman; did you get all that from the static channel?" Wally reaches for his food, but Conner stands tall, holding it out of his grasp.

"And Artemis has a uniform fairly… lacking in coverage."

"Easy, dude, 'cuz you've got Megalicious, and I think that's enough for—"

"Surely, you want Artemis gone, but not _dead_," he barks, finally, and Wally nearly jumps with the sudden viciousness the boy laces behind his words. His green eyes trail across his other teammates, who meet his eyes with the same determination behind Conner's.

Grudgingly, the speedster sighs, shoulder drooping. His eyes gaze haphazardly upwards, squinting against the ceiling light, picking out his sandwich. "Can I finish my snack, first?"

"It'll be in the fridge when you both come back," he offers. Wally contains the growl building in his chest.

"Fine," he bites out. "I'll go get her."

He stalks off down the hall so quickly that he never sees the others place bets.

He finds her on the beach, and she's soaking wet. Her hair, wild and free of its ponytail, is now plastered against her skin. It isn't its normal luscious gold, but dull in the rain and the dark of night. She is seated on the sand, arms hugging her knees to her chest, staring with distaste out at the waves. If he looks close enough, he can spot her fingers shaking as they to retain their grip on her knees.

But of course, that would imply he's sitting close enough. Which he most certainly isn't. Not close enough to feel the heat leeching from her skin. Not close enough to hear her ragged breathing, hoarse and uneven, as if she's been crying. Not close enough to notice that her cheeks _do_ look a little streaked.

Not. At. All.

He watches her quietly for a few moments before she finally speaks. "Come to throw me in?"

"Come to make sure you haven't."

"Funny. I almost believe you." There is a pregnant pause as the rain pelts the surface of the water, their heads, the sand, everything. Then, she speaks again, and her voice quivers ever-so-slightly as her lips move. "What's wrong; remember something _else_ I screwed up tonight?"

He bites his tongue to make sure the wrong words don't come out. Because he's just so used to hashing it out with her, that a weakly-formed _apology_ just doesn't seem to fit into his vocabulary. He's not sure why she's different. Why she makes his blood boil, or his skin crawl (and not in a _bad_ way, either), or heighten his urge to pull out his own hair.

Like right now, when she's cutting him off (in her defense, he hasn't even started up his stupid apology). Actually, it's not so much cutting him off as flicking a switch and letting verbal vomit tumble from her mouth like a broken tap. The tears rain on her cheeks just makes it worse.

"You know, I realize you hate me, but it would be nice if once in a while you could _back off_. Because I actually _like_ it here. And contrary to what you think, I'm _trying_ to fit in. I'm _trying_ to meet the expectations of the Team. I really am." She hugs her knees tighter to her chest, refusing to sniffle and instead glancing sideways at him through a glare. "I've tried it, for a very long time. Tried fitting in. At home. At school. And now here. And for once, I thought it might be working, but if…if I can't get _you_ to like me, then why am I bothering with the rest of them?"

He formulates a million ways he could take a shot at her for wanting him to like her, regardless that she doesn't mean it _that way_. He thinks of how angry he can make her by pushing her buttons about opening up to _him_. He ponders how much of an ass everyone would think him if he went that far.

And really, as mouthy as he can be around her, he isn't an ass. _No_, don't give him that look, he's _not_, okay? Really. He just lets his anger get the best of him sometimes. And he knows he shouldn't. Knows that treating a teammate like that—a friend, if we're stepping out of that comfort zone everyone deems denial for just a moment—is a bad idea. Knows he doesn't mean to hurt her. _Ever_.

So he throws caution to the wind and lets his lips form words he think sound funny in his ears. And judging by the look she gives him, she must think it, too. "I'm sorry."

She splutters, rain comes flying off her lips and cheeks. "You're…what?"

"You heard me."

"No, I… I'm not sure I did."

"I'm sorry," he repeats, squaring his shoulders and staring straight at her. "For what I said, back inside. I…I don't hate you." She gives him a skeptical look, sniffles ever-so-slightly. Internally, he kicks himself, because he actually thinks she looks _cute_ doing it. "I don't. I just… I let my anger get out of hand, sometimes. And… and I know it's not fair, to anyone, especially not you. Because I wasn't angry at you. I was angry at me."

"At you?"

"Yeah. It was my fault tonight, on the mission. I _was_ in the way of your shot. It was my fault he got away. I just… have an issue with admitting when I do something wrong. So I take it out on others—on you, mainly, because I know you'll hit back."

"You realize that's not _healthy_, right?" she points out, but he can see that despite his problems, it's working. The corners of her lips are curving up, and there is a light in those dark eyes of hers that was unsettlingly absent when he sat down.

"You know what else isn't healthy? Bottling your anger," he says, hating the way he's licking his lips as he talks. "You need to let it out." And he pulls her to her feet, holding his arms wide. "Hit back."

And hit, she does. Without hesitation she socks him, in the arm, in the chest, once, twice, and then that's it, she can't. Suddenly there are more tears than frustration on her face, more exasperation than anger in her chest, and she's so so _so_ exhausted, because she hasn't rested from their _stupid_ mission yet. She collapses into his arms, hating the way her body is tired enough to let him catch her. Hating the way she doesn't mind that he's seeing her cry. Hating the way he's not making fun of her, but _comforting her_.

"It's okay, beautiful. I've got you." He whispers in her ear, her hair fluttering softly because of his breath only a moment before they're on the move, back towards the Cave, the archer in the speedster's arms, hating the way that she _loves_ the feeling. Even if it makes her remember the stupid desert, and _things_.

She's dry by the time he makes it to her room. By the time he sets her on her bed, and whispers that he's sorry, and turns to leave. By the time she reaches out, and takes his hand, and whispers that she wants him to stay, at least until she falls asleep.

Neither is sure what has come over them. What has changed from harsh words and screaming and kicking earlier in the evening to this—whatever _this_ is. But as he sits on the edge of her bed, and watches her slip softly to sleep and cautiously, oh-so-cautiously, holds that callused hand of hers, he doesn't care. Because though he is sorry for sending her into the storm, and he is sorry for saying terrible things….

…he isn't sorry for taking a chance. And he's _certainly_ not sorry for how things turned out.

_And I'm not sorry that I'm never letting go._


	5. Can't Keepy My Hands Off You

******Note:** this is likely my favorite thing I've written for wally/artemis yet, and probably ever will. That said, it's rather a bit...shorter than my others. Sorry about that. Hope you enjoy nonetheless! As usualy, title from the song of the same name, by _simple plan._

**Rating:** I'll place it at T, because I'm not _explicitly_ saying what it is they're doing, but you can imagine it, if you've got the mind to. I apparently did, though I haven't quite made the jump to smut yet. yet being the key word there.

* * *

><p><strong>Can't Keep My Hands Off You<strong>

_Cuz on the street, or under the covers,  
>We're stuck like two pieces of Velcro,<br>At the park, in the back of my car,  
>It doesn't matter what I do,<br>No, I can't keep my hands off you_

* * *

><p>They haven't a clue when 'this' started, whatever this is. It could've begun after Bialya. It might've been unleashed by that <em>ridiculous<em> simulation. It may have had something to do with Conner and M'gann being _together_.

Or, maybe, as is suspected in whispers and murmurs among their closest and in the back of their minds, it was there all along, beneath the surface, waiting for the simples of touches to ignite them, to set them aflame. In a way their arguments only hinted at. In way they'd only dreamed about in the dark of night.

It was just a simple touch that lingered longer than necessary, his hand on hers, that made the spark light somewhere deep within their hearts. A day just like any other at the Cave, after a mission, they were both in the kitchen, trying to find food, scattering things across the countertops. An accidental touch as they reached for the same thing, that shouldn't have been any different then before. Only, they couldn't ever remember being this close, so he'd never noticed how nice she'd smelled, and she'd never noticed how green his eyes were.

And then the touches became a look, as she began searching for those green eyes across the kitchen, when he's stuffing his face and she's doing her work. Or during training, when Dinah's wiping the floor with someone and they're waiting their turn to go at it. Or as the Bats debriefed them, and they're itching to get going. Just a meaningful gaze they, and they alone, share. A simple smolder that dragged that spark from deep down and filled their whole bodies with warm, with longing, with _something_ more than normal. Something which neither was quite sure what to make of just yet, and so he deemed it his goal to figure it out.

So the looks were shared from closer, still, as he found every excuse to be next to her on missions, during Team outings, at the Cave when they had movie nights. Just near enough to bump elbows and hands, and be intoxicated by the wondrous smell she carried, of which he couldn't quite figure the source. Perfume? Soap? Shampoo? Who knew? But the things he felt in such close proximity he knew she did, too. Knew the warmth was growing, burrowing deep inside his pores, enrapturing his every fibre and filling him with a hungering, growing, _burning_ curiosity. To touch, to feel, to _taste._

And finally, after touching and looking and feeling, they could no longer think, dream, _wonder_. They caved. Neither could quite remember where first, his room or hers, amongst shadows and sheets where they'd only imagined it beforehand. But soon it was routine, after a mission, after a training session, to work off stress. They spent less time as a team and more time as a _whole_, bodies pressed together, exploring and testing that heat creeping into every corner.

He's seen and wondered about the calluses she's built against her bow, but never felt their rough touch rake against his skin the way it does now. She's pondered and imagined about just how far those powers of his expand—and there isn't a world in which she'd be disappointed.

They can't fathom how no one's said a word. Not a snicker from the Boy Troller, or a giggle from M'gann, or any sort of frown from Kaldur or Conner. He hasn't gotten a phone call from Roy, threatening to kill him for being reckless, and she hasn't heard a single squeal from Z's lips. No one's dared call them out on their shit, and it's not like they can't have _noticed_, because it's getting worse. It's not just within the confines of a dark room, but stretching out over public places, their touches and looks on display for the world to judge see.

But they're quite alright with everyone's letting it go, acting as if there's nothing going on. Because it means they can keep thinking that way. Like nothing's changed, there's important or special happening here. Like he doesn't know every scar that winds along her soft skin and gentle curves, and she, every freckle spattered across his warm body. Like they're not perfectly in sync in every mission, every task they set themselves to, laughing and smiling and _fitting together_, in every way, shape, or form.

When no one talks about it, it means they don't have to stop. They can keep up those moments, where they dip into the alcove of the hallway heading to a mission debriefing, mouths open and hands outstretched. Where they're quiet and careful and nearly always short of breath. Her skin is always flustered, her fingers quake just the slightest when he moans her name, and he can't stop looking at her with those green eyes in a way she hasn't seen before.

When it remains their unspoken secret, they can keep pretending nothing's any different than before the looks and before the touches. They don't have to talk about what it is they're doing; tangled together in each other's everything, night after night, and day after day.

They don't have to label 'this', whatever it is, wherever it started. They can just remain Wally and Artemis.

Artemis and Wally.

And they're damn well comfortable with that.


End file.
